


Stupid Words and Whiskey's Kiss

by bloodyfrank



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol, Child Neglect, Drunken Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Neglect, Student Frank, Teacher Gerard, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5276624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodyfrank/pseuds/bloodyfrank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an asexual's take on teacher/student.</p><p>Frank is neglected and in his last year of high school. Gerard is a single art teacher.</p><p>When the two collide, it's no coincident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid Words and Whiskey's Kiss

Another night on the floor was just another day Frank would never see, and if he was being honest, he didn't mind so much. He was a walking corpse at best, and no better than chopped liver to his family. But in a few years, even if he didn't quite know it, the burn of whiskey and the sloppy, effortless kisses that followed would have much more meaning than another night in another dingy bar.

The day everyone dreaded, Monday, had just rolled around, and as usual, Frank was hesitant to get up. Would anyone really miss him, or even notice if he just stayed there, curled into his usual foetal position on the uncomfortable floor, not moving? His family wouldn't, but then again, the only thing they cared about was sending him off to school so Child Protective Services wouldn't fuck them royally. They didn't care, they _couldn't_ care _less_ , about what he did in his spare time, and his addiction to alcohol was only proof of that fact. He had a fake ID. As far as the bars were concerned, he was just the shortest 22 year-old to walk the earth.

Twenty-two. The same age as his art teacher, Mr. Way. The same age as the youngest teacher in the whole school. The teacher with the soft, inky hair and perfect pale face. The one with the hazel eyes that always sparkled when he talked about art, the one that genuinely enjoyed his job, the one that was just so overwhelmingly _pretty_ and _perfect_. But most importantly, the one that told him he was worth something.

The thought alone of his favourite teacher smiling and rambling about art and making those hand motions got him up and off of the floor, his chihuahua-mutt laying at his feet. His back and neck ached, his whole body was stiff. There was a kink in his neck, and not his usual, enjoyable blood kink; instead, he couldn't look left, not without his neck hurting. All his movements were awkward, uncomfortable and stilted, and as he rose to his pained feet, he already felt a breakdown on the horizon. He didn't change from his old dirty shirt and jeans, he had nothing available to change into, and instead grabbed his bag with shaky fingers, then went to catch the bus.

The bus ride was awful, and so was school. _Just wait until last block,_ he told himself, _until you can see Mr. Way._ But last block felt like it would never come, like he would die before it came around and the faculty would find his body in the hallway and have to take it away. Somehow, by some pure miracle, he made it, and didn't hesitate before running into the art room early. Mr. Way greeted him with a soft, barely-a-whisper 'hello' in that small, slightly nasally voice he had, one of his pencils perched cautiously behind his ear. Frank relaxed immediately, smiling weakly and sitting at a vacant table. The art room was welcoming, not only to the teacher with the long, slim artist fingers, but also to the tiny, scrawny punk boy.

That was the block that felt like it lasted a year, and all Frank had drawn was scribbles on a messy page, in the sketchbook his teacher had to provide because his dad wouldn't buy him one for class. He was the last one out of class, and he didn't return home. Rather, he wandered the streets, looking like a homeless kid so much that people gave him money.

It was dark soon after school ended, and he continued to walk late into the night. No earlier than one in the morning did he slip into a bar, fake identification in hand and cheap "homeless charity" money in his pockets. The second he slipped up to the bar's counter, he set the little card down and let the tender look it over. She fell for it, and slipped him the shot of whiskey he asked for with soft fingers. He raised the glass to his lips, shut his eyes and let the bittersweet amber liquid glide down his throat. It stung, burned like acid so addictively on its passing that he grasped the small glass tighter, lowering it quickly. He was poured another, and another, one after the other until his mind fogged over and things started to blur. 

They kicked him out soon after. He was left to roam, wander the streets like the same lost puppies he pitied. With the alcohol in his system, he couldn't tell what time it was, and he was stumbling quite a bit. He didn't know where he was going, if anywhere in particular, and he was drifting in and out of reality. Somehow, by some miracle, he found himself at Mr. Way's door, a whiny, emotional, drunken mess as it pulled quietly open, and his teacher stared down at him. He stared back, his eyes teary and his cheeks stained.

"I don't know w-what to do," he blubbered uncontrollably, sniffling and wiping furiously at his eyes. "M-my parents d-don't care and I'm alone and d-depressed a-and I don't wanna be!"

"Frank," Mr. Way started softly, kneeling down and setting a hand delicately on his shoulder. "Have you been drinking..?" He asked, eliciting a small, meek nod from the tiny punk. Frank wiped away at his eyes again as he was ushered carefully inside, then sat on a soft, dark leather couch. It was so soft, so unlike the floor he was used to sleeping and living on, and it felt so nice under his stiff form.

"I-I'm all a-alone, Mr. W-Way," he weeped, hiding his face in his hands and whimpering.

"Gerard," corrected his teacher, rubbing his back in small circles and smiling sympathetically as his hand worked smoothly over the ratty fabric. "You don't have to be formal right now. Right now, you need to take deep breaths."

"Can't," whispered the neglected teen, suddenly lurching forward and sobbing into his chest. "All alone..."

Though Gerard would never admit it, he felt something towards the little punk in his art class, a love like a slow-burning fire that went directly against his job terms. The one shred of hope that those feelings could some day be returned was that Frank was on his last year. In mere months, he'd be fair game, something to love and call his own in the best case. But sitting there, holding him delicately, as if he could break with a touch too harsh, it was too tempting, and felt like it couldn't wait.

So he leaned down, cupped Frank's cheek in a hand, and completely removed the space between their lips. The student tensed a second, but ceased his relentless sobs and sniffles, his shaky hands grabbing at the front of his pretty teacher's shirt as he started to kiss back and melt underneath him. Without even separating as much as an inch, they moved in perfect synchronization, laying down, tangling their legs, finding themselves completely wrapped up in each other. Frank's movements were slow and unsure with the alcohol he had drank, and his lip work was sloppy, but Gerard didn't care. His sure, precise movements made up for the lack of coordination on the other end, and though the younger boy's fingers were digging into his chest, he didn't have a care in the world.

"You're not alone," he whispered once they had both pulled away from each other's lips. There was just barely a space between their lips, big enough for Frank's whiskey breaths to mingle with his minty ones, but small enough for their upper lips to brush. "You haven't been since you started art. You have a lot of promise, Frank, don't you see? When I say you're worth something, I mean every word, every syllable, every sound..."

"I-I..." Frank tried, slowly peeling his eyes open. In all his days, his two years of art, of crushing on the cute, young teacher with sparkling hazel eyes, never once did he think his feelings would be returned. His cheeks burned a bright red, and his words were failing him even more than before. Laying there against his teacher's chest just felt so wrong, but even more right. Instead of questioning the kiss they had shared or the fact that, dear god, they were _snuggling_ , he merely nodded and buried his face in Gerard's chest. "M'kay.."

"Once you graduate, Frank, I'm going to get you out of that house.."

"An' in'a yours?" He slurred quietly, giggling his little stoner giggle and snorting quietly. When he was drunk, he was emotional, but he had mood swings; and that was a perfect example, from sobbing to giggly.

"Maybe," Gerard whispered, even if it was more to himself than to his student. He sighed softly and kicked up a blanket from the end of the couch, draping it over their tangled bodies before giving in to his romantic desires. "If you remember this when you wake up.."

"I love y', Mis'er Gerar'.." Not a minute after he finished his sentence, Frank was fast asleep, snoring small, soft kitten snores as he relaxed against the cool leather, keeping his small hands wrapped tightly around the front of his teacher's shirt.

When he woke hungover, he remembered every word. He didn't regret any of it, he didn't deny anything, he agreed to move in.

And he counted down the days until graduation.


End file.
